


Neither Here Nor There

by The_Arkadian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-15
Updated: 2010-10-15
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:06:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John get stuck in a lift. BBC verse. From a prompt on sherlockbbc_fic:<br/>http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2727.html?thread=4851879#t4851879</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neither Here Nor There

"I told you it was a waste of time," he said for the fifth time as they walked back towards the lifts at Elephant & Castle.

John rolled his eyes behind Sherlock's back as they approached the ticket barriers. "Alright, I was wrong," he conceded, shrugging as he dug in his pocket for his Oyster card.

"And another thing," snapped Sherlock, turning on his heel and brandishing his own card in John's face as he stepped through the gate. John swiped at the card in annoyance. "Yes, I know you hate public transport," he snapped back. "But it's late, I'm bloody tired, and I'm damned if I'm going to stand around on a street corner hoping for a taxi at this time of night on a Friday, and the tube will be quicker."

He pushed by the taller man then paused to look back over his shoulder. "Well? Are you coming, or are you going to sulk there all night?" He turned without waiting for an answer and continued towards the lifts. After a moment of glaring at his back, Sherlock strode after him.

John glanced sideways at him as they stepped into the lift, and his expression softened. "I know you hate being hemmed in by the crowds," he said gently. "But trust me, this time of night it'll be dead. We'll probably have the car to ourselves on the train."

Sherlock folded his arms and slouched against the brushed steel wall of the lift as the doors closed, the corners of his mouth still pulled down and his brow knotted in a scowl. "It's not just that," he muttered. "It's-"

The lift juddered to a halt and John staggered slightly, caught unawares by the suddenness of the stop. He looked up at the lit-up chevrons above the door as the lights flickered then dimmed slightly at the same time the chevrons went out. "Oh that's just bloody marvelous," exclaimed John in annoyance. "What do you think - power cut?"

There was no answer from Sherlock; John glanced round, surprised at his lack of response. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock had not moved from his corner of the lift. He was biting at his thumbnail, eyes staring vacantly at nothing.

"Sherlock? You alright?" asked John, stepping closer; Sherlock looked paler under the emergency lights, his skin cast with a faintly waxy sheen. Sherlock darted him a brief glance, lips quirking up into a brief, nervous smile that vanished as fast as it appeared.

"Fine. Never better," he lied.

"Oh. OK then; right," said John, his uncertain tone betraying his disbelief. Sherlock glanced at him again then pushed himself up off the side of the lift and started to pace.

There wasn't a lot of space for pacing; the small metal plaque by the lift door stated that up to 20 people or 1300kg could fit in the oblong metal compartment they were currently trapped within and John reflected that they must be very small, very friendly people as he sidled into the centre of the space to give Sherlock room to move. With his long legs, Sherlock was confined to barely four paces along the length of the lift and barely three across. It didn't seem to be doing much for his temper.

John opted to save his energy and instead he studied the smooth, slightly dirty floor, the brushed metal walls and the smooth, featureless ceiling. Posters in frames adorned two of the walls; one of the card posters had been tugged slightly out of its frame. John wandered over and poked it as Sherlock came to a halt and started jabbing the emergency call button impatiently.

"Why don't they bloody answer?" he growled, stabbing it again with an accusatory finger. "Hello? Hel _loooo!_ Is anybody listening to this thing?"

The poster came away in John's hand and he grunted in surprise as it revealed a small window in the side of the wall. "Sherlock?"

"What?" snapped Sherlock then, in an altogether different tone of voice, "Oh." He joined John in peering out at the murky blackness beyond the window. He scanned his eyes over the smooth seams of the metal panels around the window. "Oh, of course," he murmured, running his fingers along the cracks. "They'd have to have a way to evacuate if one of the lifts jammed, wouldn't they?"

"So we just have to sit tight and they'll get us out then," replied John, stepping back. Sherlock gave him a withering look over his shoulder then turned back to examining the wall.

"What? What?" he protested.

"If you think I'm going to tamely sit here in this metal coffin, you've another think coming," replied Sherlock tersely. "Aha!" He poked a small round hole. "Got any pliers on you, John?"

"What? Sorry, no," replied John distractedly. "What's wrong with waiting?"

"Damn!" shouted Sherlock, slamming his hand flat against the wall. "Damn, damn, damn, damn...." His voice tailed away as he slumped forward and pressed his forehead against the cool metal wall, defeated.

"Sherlock, are you..." began John, reaching for Sherlock's shoulder.

"No I'm not bloody alright!" shouted Sherlock, his voice tight. John stared at him for a moment as understanding dawned slowly upon him.

"Sherlock. Are you claustrophobic?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock stilled then glanced sideways at John from behind a veil of dark hair. There was a haunted look in the silver-grey eyes, and John silently cursed himself that he hadn't seen it sooner. His hand hovered over Sherlock's shoulder as they regarded each other.

"Don't," said Sherlock quietly. John raised his hand and ducked his head slightly in acquiescence.

"OK, OK," he said in the same quiet tone of voice. "No touching."

Sherlock stared at him without moving for several minutes before allowing his shoulders to slump slightly. Turning and leaning his back against the locked door that had frustrated his efforts, he slid down until he sat on the floor and rested his elbows on his raised knees, staring at the grey floor. Specks of mica here and there in the flooring glinted under the emergency lights as though the cold floor were frosted. It didn't do much to change the feeling that the lift had become, however temporarily, their prison, John reflected as he awkwardly hunkered down to crouch in front of Sherlock. It couldn't be doing wonders for Sherlock's frame of mind either.

"Want to talk about it?" he asked. "Or, not - whatever feels best to you," he added, as Sherlock raised his head and gave him a steely-eyed glare. Sherlock's nostrils flared slightly and his lips parted as though to speak before pursing again as he glanced away.

"Yes," he finally admitted. "I'm claustrophobic. I can't abide small spaces. To feel trapped." He gestured briefly at the four steel walls surrounding them. "It's like being in a prison cell. Like-"

He fell silent, his hands briefly clenching into fists before relaxing again, the long slender fingers dangling limply as he raised his head and rested it against the door at his back. He swallowed, the Adam's apple bobbing convulsively in his long pale throat. "Like being buried alive," he whispered, as though to himself.

"I know what you mean," nodded John. Sherlock's attention snapped back to him, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Do you? I don't think you do."

"Oh?" replied John affably as he shifted slightly to sit down on the floor with his back against the opposite wall so he was facing Sherlock across the width of the lift. "Why not?"

"Because you've never-"

"Never what - been buried alive? Maybe not. But that doesn't mean I don't know what it's like to be trapped in a small space and not know when - if ever - you're getting out," John replied. "I was in a transport once - an APC. We were part of a convoy, only we got separated from the rest of the column when we came under attack. We were a little in front when they ambushed us; it was the car behind that got hit first. So we were by ourselves when the APC went over a landmine."

"And I suppose you were all trapped for hours and what, played I-Spy to keep up your spirits until help came - oh spare me the bloody cheery stories, John," Sherlock sneered, surly, as he glanced away, his hands curling into fists.

John merely blinked, his face creasing slightly. Sherlock glanced back, and his expression changed. "Oh."

"Bit not good," agreed John quietly.

Sherlock dropped his head and hunched in upon himself a little. "I'm... sorry. They...."

"Gordon took the brunt of it - he was the driver. He was beyond help." John shrugged matter-of-factly,though Sherlock could see the faint flair of remembered pain in the blue eyes that stared steadily at him. "Jimmy... he had concussion, but otherwise he was lucky. Somehow I avoided any of it. But the doors were wrecked and the APC was stuck on its roof, and we knew the rest of the column was stuck somewhere behind us, in the middle of a firefight."

"God. What did you do?" murmured Sherlock.

John ducked his head and grinned. "Played a lot of I-Spy," he admitted.

Sherlock stared at him blankly. "Seriously?"

John nodded, chuckling. "Seriously. Wasn't anything else we could do, and I needed to keep Jimmy awake and responding. So we played I-Spy."

Sherlock threw back his head and laughed.

John smiled as Sherlock seemed to relax a little, though the haunted look never quite left the pale grey eyes of his friend. After a while Sherlock quietened and his face straightened.

"It's OK," said John quietly. "They'll get us out soon."

"What if they don't?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "What if we're stuck here all night?"

"We won't be," said John placidly.

Sherlock stared at his fingernails. "I wish I had your optimism sometimes, John. I almost envy you. It must be nice to always look on the bright side."

John shrugged, unfazed by the note of bitterness in his friend's voice. "Places like this, they do regular checks - someone will come along soon and notice the lift's not where it's supposed to be, and do something about it."

Sherlock sighed. "I hope you're right," he murmured, glancing up at the light. "I hate this. I hate not knowing what's going on... not being able to do anything about it."

John leaned forward, noting how Sherlock had started to curl in upon himself again.

"Sherlock," he said gently. Sherlock dropped his gaze back down to John again, who smiled reassuringly; Sherlock glanced away, unable to return the smile.

"Sherlock?"

"Keep talking - please," said Sherlock hoarsely.

John got up and moved over to sit down next to Sherlock; closer to, John could see that the slender long-fingered hands now wrapped around Sherlock's knees were clutching so tightly the knuckles were white, and Sherlock was trembling faintly.

"Talk? OK... OK, that do you want me to talk about?" he asked.

"God, I don't know! Anything. First thing that comes into your head, it doesn't matter - just talk!"

John nodded. "OK. I can do that. Just talk. OK...."

So he did. He talked about what they'd do when they got home. About how he would make them both a cup of tea. He rambled on about having to remove the eyeballs from the microwave because they'd both be hungry when they got back and Sherlock was damned well going to eat because John knew Sherlock had only had three biscuits since breakfast and that had just been a slice of dry toast so he was damned well going to have some of that left-over chow mein that was in the fridge, but they could stop off at the all-night Tesco round the corner and see if they had any more of that fruit cake Sherlock had liked so much the other evening and they could have that for dessert afterwards, and afterwards maybe Sherlock might like to get his violin out because John had heard this lovely piece on Radio 3 and he wondered if he hummed it, perhaps Sherlock would recognise it because John would really love to hear him play it and....

John broke off. Sherlock suddenly clutched at his arm. "Don't stop," he whispered.

"Shh! Listen! Do you hear that?" John laid his hand gently over Sherlock's.

Sherlock stilled and cocked his head to one side, listening intently, and then suddenly he leapt to his feet. "It's the lift in the next shaft - it's moving!"

John got to his feet and joined Sherlock at the small window; they could dimly make out movement as a light from somewhere above came slowly down towards them until finally they could see it was coming from an open doorway in the side of the lift next door as the lift came to a stop next to their lift car. A member of station staff leaned over and there was a harsh metallic scraping and then the door in their car swung open.

"Evening, gentlemen," said the female station assistant. "Sorry to keep you waiting; we've had a power cut and it seems to have knocked out the lifts." She reached back inside her car and brought out a metal ramp which she laid down between the two cars. "Now, if you'll just step across... that's it... carefully does it...."

John waited for Sherlock to cross to safety before following himself, keeping his eyes on the interior of the other car rather than giving in to the temptation to look down.

"But if the power cut knocked out the lifts, how did you get this one to work?" demanded Sherlock as John stepped into the lift.

"Manual winding," replied the station assistant as she pulled the ramp back in and closed the lift door. "Lift 2 to machine room, all aboard, over," she announced into her radio handset.

"Roger that, Kate," replied a male voice from the radio, and the lift began to slowly rise.

Sherlock shuffled from foot to foot, impatient to be off; John smiled apologetically at Kate the station assistant. "Won't take long," she reassured them both. "Just a few minutes."

John had no doubt they were the longest few minutes Sherlock had ever had to wait.

The doors had barely begun to open before Sherlock had darted through them and into the ticket hall area. John followed somewhat more sedately, offering profuse thanks to Kate and apologising as he followed after Sherlock. The wry smile and wave he got from Kate in return made him think she was fairly used to people like Sherlock, but that didn't make him feel any less awkward about his friend's antisocial behaviour and lack of thanks for their timely rescue.

Sherlock was standing outside the station, hands in his coat pockets and head thrown back, breathing deeply.

"Glad to be out then?" observed John.

"You have no idea," replied Sherlock. He stood like that a moment longer, then glanced down at John with a smile. "Did you say something about cake earlier?"

"Come on," said John with a smile as he raised a hand to hail a passing cab.

He never argued with Sherlock about taking the tube again.

~~ _Fin_ ~~


End file.
